Cellular Jail, a Pilgrimage for Free India
Back in the 90s, my grandmother, a passionate reader and educator, had written a moving account of her visit to the Cellular Jail in Port Blair, Andaman and Nicobar Islands, that she shared with us. Her descriptions of the plight of the prisoners of ‘sazaye kalapani’ tortured by the British left a twelve-year-old me anguished, bewildered at the imagination of how it could have happened. Her handwritten notes in Hindi are still flashing in my mind as I write this 30 years later. As a child, even without having visited the prison in person, her detailed accounts had kindled a strong sense of the sacrifice and emotion associated with the place.
The distress returned when I got a chance to visit the same place recently with my teenage children. Undoubtedly, the place holds an important place in history, being the inescapable prison where Indian revolutionaries were kept in exemplary solitary confinement since it was built in 1909 up to its resumption by the British in 1938. But what struck me deeply was its monumentality, not just of the physical kind but also the immense associations of the heart-wrenching pain and agony that it carries.
Based on English philosopher Bentham’s Panopticon model (of the 1700s), the cellular jail is designed, like some other jails across the world on the principles of surveillance. The structure was a star-shaped set of seven wings attached at the center to a watch tower, which was the tallest part of the whole complex. Each wing was singly loaded with cells lined up along long corridors so that inmates could not see each other, while the consecutive wings faced each other’s rear side. Communication was blocked by design. Spatial control and control of behavior were powerfully aligned to each other and the architecture. The central concept of the jail was that of solitariness, a weapon used against the prisoners. It was planned along a ‘no communication’ design based on the idea of efficient surveillance. Each prisoner was at no point in time, able to communicate with any other. Not only that, the model was designed in a manner that a minimum number of guards was enough to guard the wings from the central watch tower, and in a manner that these guards could not be seen by the prisoners. The prisoners, therefore, had to always act like they were being seen, even though they could not see where the guards were. The architecture of the Cellular Jail was a manifestation of power, an example of spatial control facilitating behavioral control. This model of surveillance holds significance in the history of prisons and can be seen in the prison of Melbourne, for instance.
The difference, however, is apparent. The convicts here were not the usual hardened criminals one would expect in a prison of severe punishment, but were instead, highly motivated and selfless freedom fighters. They were intellectuals, well-read and educated, with a strong sense of purpose towards the country’s freedom. They would have been convicted for something as trivial as writing an article highlighting injustices of the British, participating in a revolutionary strike, or simply raising their voice for the country’s freedom. This realization is an unnervingly intense reminder that the sacrifices, pain, and agony were for us, the future generations.
I could not help but express my gratefulness upon entering martyred Veer Savarkar’s cell, one of the greatest names in the history of the cellular jail. This was at the far end of the corridor on the upper floors, perhaps deducted from his mentions of being close to the gallows in his autobiography.
The prison walls resonate with the tortured lives of the inmates who would have suffered on the flogging frame, tied in heavy chains that cut into their bleeding skin. The corridors were reminiscent of their loud cries amidst the nationalistic slogans of vande matram that echoed throughout the building. The dimly lit solitary cells with narrow entrances and one-way gate latches were evidence of the demonically silent lives of the prisoners. Spirits were broken along with bones in the torture chambers of the prison, while the bricks stood still as witnesses. The deathly gallows and the platform for last rites were silent enough to evoke a deafening cry in our heads, reminding us of the massive sacrifices. Despite all the agony, what rings in the ear as one passes through the arches, is the memory of boisterous calls for freedom that perhaps escaped their dying bodies every day.
Today, as we are breathing in free India we should not forget or island (isolate) the memory of their sacrifices. And that is perhaps how my grandmother felt when she visited this place many years ago and decided to write about it. The seed was sown long ago.
The events are long gone. The prisoners are martyred and lost forever. The memories revived only to fade again. The history written and rewritten. Today, what remains as witnesses from that era are a lonely peepal tree and the bricks burning to tell the tales. The definitions of surveillance have changed and so have the subjects, but remarkably, the idea lives on in a different avatar. Structures of surveillance remain in our society today, but that is another story.
The visit to the cellular jail is a pilgrimage of sorts, which leaves one agitated, inspired, emotional, and grateful at the same time. I would not want to feel sad here, not just because of the exquisite beauty that awaits outside the jail complex — serene beaches, untouched waters, and idyllic environment- but also because I see this place as a temple of freedom, which needs to be revered ardently.
